Paranormal
by eeerie
Summary: to be re-written. sometime.
1. Chapter 1

Hi – I haven't seen many of these OC POVs around, so I wasn't sure if it was acceptable. But, I didn't want to write all in Dean/Sam POVs, because I feel somewhat wrong prying into their brains – idk, I'm weird like that. Currently, the plan is to maybe switch POVs – or at least, OC POV then third person, etc.

Also – this still needs work, but I just couldn't work on this particular chapter any more at the moment. I'll probably edit it later. – Sam&Dean'll hold a more prominent role hopefully starting from the next chapter.

(To be quite honest, I'm not sure if this story belongs here or not)

Thanks!

* * *

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**Chapter One**

I looked down at the burning hundred year old corpse and sneered. Very attractive, yes, I know, but no one's around to see me.

Mary Ellen Clarke had it coming – especially after she tried to use me as a human dartboard. So she had a terrible life – who cares.

There are more of us hunters, but I work by myself. I actually haven't kept up my contacts in the field, mainly because there's enough to keep me busy – and, I'm not particularly fond of the flannel, trucker hats, and mullets. I'm aware that that's an extremely ignorant generalization, but it's scarily accurate most of the time. Also, I've found that partners usually muddle things, and in this line of work, things just can't be muddled. After all, lives are at stake. I've had one die on me – not so long ago – and that was just not pleasant (thanks, werewolves). Humans don't clean up after themselves like evil beings do (sometimes).

After filling in the grave, I gave the plot another glance before heading off to my car. It was almost morning, and god knows who could be enjoying a nice little jaunt in this cemetery at the moment – their lovely morning walk would most definitely be disturbed if they saw what seems like a freshly filled plot where the one hundred and thirty two year old Mary Ellen Clarke – Beloved Mother, Wife, and Daughter – was supposed to be resting.

Beloved my ass.

* * *

.

Holding a bottle of beer in one hand and rubbing my arm with the other, I cursed the very existence of spirits and everything supernatural. I was currently at a so-called "hunters' haven" in middle of Nowhere, Nebraska, a few miles south of Mary, and it was filled with hicks, truckers, and some roadtrippers. All men. Great.

Filling in graves, though I have done my fair share, still make my arms sore. But at least I never have to go to the gym. Not that I'm around a place long enough to enjoy the perks of a gym membership. Actually, if it weren't for my job (if you can even call it that, considering the fact that I don't get paid, nor do I receive any benefits…), I'd probably be winded after climbing one flight of stairs.

"We got that son of a bitch good, didn't we?" a distinctly masculine voice said to my right.

His companion laughed. "Not before he clocked you one."

"Yeah, well, saved _your_ sorry ass."

There's definitely no time in this line of business to entertain any thoughts of men, but damn, the lighter-haired man had quite the voice. I sneaked a glance at him, pretending that I was a lady in one of them Regency romance novels, looking up at a lord of some sort through my incredibly long and thick eyelashes.

Okay, why does a man have my Regency-eyelashes?

I'm jealous.

I looked away nonchalantly as his eyes met mine.

Well damn. I guess I wasn't as covert as I thought. Step it up, Elle, you're losing your game.

"Hey."

Oh goodness. What do I do now? I know he's talking to me, but do I pretend I don't? Or should I just say hi? I'm better at speaking with spirits, and that's saying a lot. Quick, decide! Or else too much time is going to pass and everything will just be awkward.

"Hi," I managed to squeak out, cursing myself the moment the word came out of my mouth.

I think he was talking to me, at least.

I really hope he was.

"That's a nice necklace you got there," he said, motioning towards me demon-repelling amulet.

Okay, so it doesn't repel demons, so to speak. It just prevents them from possessing me – which, let me tell you, is a big problem especially when you're all by yourself.

"Thanks," I replied, "it's a family heirloom."

"What is it of?" the darker-haired one asked, his gaze fixed intently on my necklace.

I laughed ditzily. "I have no idea. Someone probably thought it was pretty or something."

He nodded. "You don't sound like you're from around here."

"Why? Because I don't sound like a redneck?" Another comment regretted. I edged a glance around the tavern, just to make sure no one was offended by my somewhat blunt speech. Nope, everyone's too drunk, and the music's too loud. Excellent.

The one with the swoon-worthy voice smiled slowly. "I'm Tom, and this is Jerry."

Jerry glared at him.

"Are you two related?" I asked, trying to conceal my laughter.

Okay, so I may be out of the loop with all the cultural on-goings of modern society, but I do remember Tom and Jerry from back in the day.

"Yeah, unfortunately, we're brothers."

"I see," I nodded. "Oh, I'm Belle."

Rule Number 5 in my book. Don't give out your real name unless you have to.

"You don't look like a Belle," Tom responded lazily, taking a swig of his beer.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because you're not blonde and busty."

I resisted the urge to glare at him indignantly. I also stopped myself from looking down at my chest, just to make sure he was wrong.

"I'm sorry, my brother's had a bit much to drink tonight," Jerry apologized, glaring once again at Tom.

I smiled, "No problem. You guys don't look like Toms and Jerrys either."

"And why not?" Tom asked, raising an eyebrow challengingly.

"You don't look like talking cartoon housepets."

"I like her," Tom said, laughing.

"So what are you two doing in Nebraska?" I asked, attempting to make small talk – something I'm really quite horrible at.

"Just passing through. We're on our way to California."

"No way! So am I," I exclaimed, ignoring Tom's pointed glance at his brother. "But first, I'm going to try and hit up some of the haunted spots nearby."

Why oh why am I so good at sounding like a valley girl? My voice tends to go soprano sometimes. I'm hoping it's just the beer kicking in – on my empty stomach.

"Why would you want to do that?" Jerry questioned, furrowing his brow.

"I'm a huge sucker for ghost stories," I replied, crossing my legs under the counter.

"I would steer clear of them if I were you," Tom stated.

"You don't honestly believe they're true, do you?" I asked, eyebrow raised.

He scoffed.

Jerry frowned at him. "We're skeptics."

"I wouldn't rule it out, I suppose," Tom said, "But tell me about the ghosts lurking around here."

"Ah, I see," I responded, tapping my finger against my chin – don't ask. It's just something I do when I'm thinking. "Right. Well, there are plenty of stories of hauntings at a local college near Lincoln –"

"Platte River?" Jerry interrupted.

"Among others," I responded, motioning for the bartender. "Coke, please."

"Hopefully the friendly ghosts will still be there by the time my car gets me there."

"There's really nothing to see," Jerry started, "We've already looked around. They're just stories."

"You've been looking for ghosts when you're skeptics?"

"Well, there's obviously nothing to do here, so we hopped on a ghost tour they were promoting at the motel."

Tom downed the last of his drink and brought the glass to the grimy counter with a thud. "We've got to get going," he said, standing up abruptly.

"What? Oh, yeah, yeah. Nice meeting you, Belle," Jerry said, getting up himself.

"Maybe we'll see you around," Tom continued. "Don't go chasing after them ghosts."

"You sound like a dad," I replied, half-frowning. I definitely do not want to even _think_ of him as my father. Ugh.

I left soon after they did, and checked into the typical rundown motel off the side of a dirt road. When I first started out hunting, driving around by myself in my sometimes unreliable car was pretty nerve wracking. Ghosts and all that stuff don't scare me much, but humans are unpredictable. Well, I guess we're not that unpredictable – big burly truckers, young woman by herself, in middle of nowhere, hm, gosh, I wonder what might happen. Granted, that sort of stuff happens in big cities and everywhere else in the world, but I was slightly paranoid. Now, I think I can handle it, you know, what with my weapons and all.

A creepy old man handed me a key and took my money without a word.

Friendly folk, these people.

It took me four tries to get the door open. The door was stuck shut, most likely due to lack of use.

I threw my duffle bag onto the bed, and turned on the light. It flickered a few times before it stayed put. Sometimes I wish I had a normal life, you know, one in which I'd stay in nice four-star hotels with busboys and more than two floors. Luxuries I can't afford. Whatever.

The tinny strains of the preset ringtone startled the crap out of me - because it was loud, and because I didn't think I'd be able to get service here.

"Hello?"

"Elle! You haven't been picking up your phone."

"Hey Kevin," I greeted, "What's up?"

"Where have you been?"

"What do you mean? You know I'm working."

"I know, but you're always so busy. I was under the impression that there's not much to do in Ohio."

"The office keeps me busy. And plus, Ohio's not that bad," I responded, lying down on the bed.

I sneezed. Perfect timing.

"I think I'm sick. It's getting cold here."

"You're not hunting, are you?" he asked cautiously.

"Of course not," I lied, though I said it in a how-can-you-even-think-that tone.

Yes, I don't enjoy lying to my brother, but it just can't be helped. After our parents died during a hunt – it was a crazy family business – my brother took it upon himself to make sure that we had nothing more to do with anything supernatural. That was about six years ago. I'd gone to college, graduated in three years, and even found a job in a sales office, and after half a year boring myself to death, I told Kevin that I'd been transferred to Ohio. And thus began my solo career as a hunter. And lying about it.

"Okay. Well, Charlotte says hi. And call every once in a while, got that?"

"Yes sir," I replied sarcastically.

"I'm just looking out – "

"I know, I know, but I'm nearly twenty five."

"That reminds me. Have you found yourself a boyfriend yet?"

"What the hell. You honestly sound like a grandfather or something now."

"I'm wise beyond my years. Seriously though, have you? Not hanging out with any hooligans, are you?"

"None worse than who you've been with in the past."

"That's not reassuring at all."

"You don't have to worry about me. I have to go in early tomorrow, so I'm going to have to cut this short."

"Oh, right. Sorry, I can't seem to remember the time difference."

Time difference? Oh. Right.

Faking a yawn, I said goodbye.

Yes, sometimes I want the normal life – for more than just the starred hotels and such. I mean, look at my brother. He quit hunting so easily – it's like he just pulled an irritating band-aid off a wound. Not a problem at all. And he's already living life as he should, what with getting married and all.

Sighing, I reached into my bag and pulled out my journal. I flipped to the last page with writing, and checked Mary off.

Tomorrow, Platte River.

* * *

.

Platte River Community College is in need of millions of dollars in funding. I looked around, almost expecting to see tumbleweed roll past the somewhat rundown Administration Building. Okay, that's a bit of an exaggeration. After driving around in Middle America for months and months by yourself, you tend to develop an extreme aversion to this particular area of the country.

Okay, down to business. Making sure that I had everything I needed – even though I wasn't sure what I was up against, I slammed the trunk and turned. I just like being prepared for the worst.

"I'm Regina Jackson of the Lincoln Courier. I'm here about the Donalds case," I greeted the woman at the front desk in the Administration building. I'd used my more professional of tones, well, at least, the one I reserve for this particular type of role.

"You don't look like a Jackson," she responded flatly, glaring at me for interrupting the meticulous act of filing her nails.

"It's my husband's name," I lied, holding my gaze.

She – Martha, according to her nametag – flicked her hair. Her 'do was entirely reminiscent of the 70's, flippy and voluminous. And also reeks of excessive hairspray.

"Well," she sniffed, reluctantly placing her nail file on the desk, "What can I help you with?'

"I'm following up on the Donalds investigation."

She looked up at me, expectantly.

"There have been four deaths on this campus within the past two weeks –"

"You should talk to Paulson," she interrupted. "He's been doing a little investigating of his own."

"Where can I find this Paulson?"

"Library Science Building, room 605."

And with that, she picked up her nail file and waved me away.

Sometimes it sucks being a woman. I bet if I looked like…Tom from the roadside pub, she'd be much more receptive.

Whatever.

Library Science Building…

I'm certainly not the best of hunters out there, nor do I even come close, in my opinion. Why? Well, for one, I'm not entirely level-headed when it comes to crunch time. On the outside, I may look just fine and calm, but on the inside, that's a completely different story. _Completely_. I stand my ground with demons and the gang, but what I'd really like to do is flee like hell. Fight or flight. But, this is what I've chosen to do – the adrenaline's great too, though most of the time it's a mixture of adrenaline from fear and from excitement. Also, my lying skills need a little more work. I never really enjoy acting out stories while trying to get information out of people. But, no one's ever called me out, so whatever I'm doing seems to be working.

By the time I found the Library Science Building, it was almost eight thirty. I think it's safe to say that PRCC doesn't think much of this particular concentration. I've passed several agricultural structures and buildings, old and newly built, but the Library Science one is, well, raggedy.

The floorboards creaked under my boots – can't wear sneakers for fear that the laces might come undone and thus prevent me from making a hasty retreat or from giving a good chase, for that matter. Not trusting the elevator, I climbed the stairs to the sixth floor, and was immediately bombarded by the scent of burning incense sticks.

Coughing, I knocked on 605. The placard on the door said "Henry D. Paulson, PhD," though it was more than slightly rusted and worn down.

"Hello?" I called, turning the knob after a few seconds.

The door was pulled open from the inside before I even registered the fact that it was opening.

"Who are you and what do you want?" a jittery middle-aged man asked.

He looked like a cute little grandpa, wearing his gray sweater vest and round glasses.

"Hi," I said friendlily, "I'm Regina Jackson of the Courier. Martha told me you might help me with the Donalds case."

"What do you want to know?" he asked warily, returning to his seat behind a mahogany desk that was completely covered with paper and open books.

Wow that was easy.

I followed him inside, and the incense became more empowering. There was an entire row of them lining the window sill. Why, I don't know.

Coughing again, I said, "What happened? The police report wasn't exactly clear on that. All they said was that it was a suicide."

He peered at me over the top of his glasses. "Do you want the official version?"

"Do you know something the police don't?

"They think I'm crazy," he laughed somewhat bitterly. "It doesn't matter how many degrees you have. As soon as you start spewing words like ghosts and spirits, you're automatically insane."

"Ghosts?"

He nodded. "Now I hope you don't think I've lost my marbles, but I'm certain the place is haunted."

"Really? I've always been interested in the supernatural," I gushed, all the while grimacing on the inside at my effusiveness.

He smiled and gestured to the one chair that wasn't covered with stacks of paper. "Take a seat."

As much as I love cute old men, I hope this doesn't take long, I thought, settling into the hard wooden seat.

"Drink?" he offered, gesturing to the coffeepot.

"No thanks," I replied, noticing a giant book with familiar demonic signs. "What is that?"

He closed it with a thud, dust blowing off the cover.

The book actually reminded me of the Book of Shadows. You know, the book in Charmed. It was a great show – one that I actually watched. Good show, but inaccurate.

After he made himself comfortable in his leather chair, he looked up at me and said, "Jenny Donalds. She was a good kid."

"You knew her?"

"She took my Ghosts in Literature class last year. Quiet, got good grades – it was an easy class though."

"Did she seem depressed?"

He shook his head and tapped his fingers together. "Not at all. Neither did any of the other victims."

"Victims?" I asked, frowning slightly.

"Victims."

He leaned toward me conspiratorially, "Have you heard of Michael Stevenson?"

"He hanged himself earlier last year, right?"

"_He_ was depressed. I've gathered that his long-time girlfriend dumped him the day before he was going to propose to her. His friends said he followed her around afterwards, trying to win her back. She didn't want anything more to do with him. Apparently, she had been cheating on him for three of the five years they've been together. Young people these days," Paulson sighed. "You've never done anything like that, have you?"

"What? Oh, uh, no," I replied, surprised at the sudden change of tone.

"Good. Though, I doubt Michael would come after you anyway. You don't fit the profile."

Resident investigator, huh? Less work for me to do. Awesome.

"Let me guess. He only goes after brunettes," I said.

He nodded. "All brunettes, all had cheated on their boyfriends. I'm sure there will be another victim by the end of the week, seeing as how promiscuous people are these days."

"How many students attend Platte River?"

"Several thousand. The majority of them live at home. There's only one dorm, and that's where everything has happened. Excuse me for a second," he apologized as his cell phone went off to the tune of House of the Rising Sun.

"I'm still working on the case," he frowned into the phone. "I haven't lost my marbles, Leah…Yes, okay, tell Charlie I'll stop by soon."

"I'm sorry about that," he said, turning back to me. "My daughter thinks I'm senile. I keep telling her the school wouldn't keep an old fogie like me on board if I were. You said you were from the Courier? How many stores are they doing on this?"

Not entirely sure what he meant by that, I replied cautiously, "We're just trying to get our facts straight."

"Right, well, thoroughness is indeed often overlooked. I would love to continue this conversation, but I have a class to get to," he said, standing up.

"Can I ask you a question, if you don't mind?" I asked, curious as hell as to why there were so many incense sticks in the room. "What are the incense sticks for?"

He looked around the room as if seeing them for the first time. "Oh, those. They're believed to ward off evil spirits."

I said goodbye and exited towards the stairs, trying to remember if that was in fact true.

You're an idiot, Elle. You're Asian, you should know. Hell, you've done the whole New Year's incense ritual. Only once, and for fun, but still.

* * *

.

"I'm sorry, I'm already late for class," Jenny's roommate apologized, squeezing past me and out the door. "Go on in though, Jenny's uncles are in there. I'm sure they'll be able to help you with whatever it is you need."

"Thanks!" I called after her, surprised that she'd actually let strangers stay in her apartment.

"Hello?" I said loudly, glancing around the living room. It was the typical college-student décor, complete with disk chairs, a ratty couch, a smattering of magazines all over the place, and posters of celebrities on the wall.

I guess I was staring at the life-size poster of George Clooney – before he lost all the weight – for a second too long, because I didn't hear the throat clearing behind me until it reached a high volume.

"Hi!" I greeted, turning to face the man that had interrupted my happy time with George.

Our brows wrinkled at the same time.

"You're Jenny's uncle?"

"What are you doing here?" the taller one – Jerry, I believe – cut in.

"Fact checking."

"I thought you were just passing through," he replied, taking a step closer.

I backed up and thought furiously. "Oh, I am. I'm a free lance writer for an online news blog. And you didn't answer my question."

"Yes, we're her uncles," Tom said impatiently.

Really. I had done my research, and Jenny doesn't have any uncles. In fact, her family line had effectively ended with her death.

"She didn't have any uncles," I said flatly, slowly backing towards the door.

"We're very very distant uncles," Tom responded, equally flatly. "Look, we're in mourning, so if you don't mind…"

"Her roommate said I could look around," I said indignantly.

Real professional, Elle, real professional.

"Go ahead."

The two brothers convened in the kitchen, and though I was insanely curious to hear what they were talking about, I walked haughtily into Jenny's room.

So much pink.

I wanted to gag.

I didn't even know what I was poking around for. Paulson's ideas pretty much confirmed my own – and added to it, actually. If it was Michael, then I'd just have to dig out his bones and salt and burn them. Okay, so I'm a somewhat careless hunter. Why? Because I'm probably going to find his grave, dig, salt and burn, and then hope everything works out – and that he doesn't get to any other brunette before I finish.

My handy EMF meter started beeping crazily from the depth of my pocket. I took it out slowly, keeping an eye out for my surroundings.

I would have let out a startled yell, but at times like these, my voice usually disappears. I had turned around, only to stand face to face with a ghost.

"Michael?" I asked as he kept staring at me – or through me. "What do you want?"

He remained silent.

"Why are you killing –"

"Stay away," he hissed in warning, pushing me back with a surprisingly strong hand. Then, like they always do, he vanished, leaving the acrid scent of death with him.

"What's going on here?" Jerry asked, holding what looked like a walkman in his hand. The antenna was fully extended, but he kept the device covered.

"What's that?" I asked, trying to evade the question.

"Nothing," he said quickly, stuffing it in his jacket pocket. "Have you found anything interesting?"

"She liked pink," I said dryly, eyeing Tom warily as he entered the room.

If he weren't such an ass, I would totally jump on him like none other.

"I don't think you're a journalist," he said simply, picking up a picture frame from the vanity.

"Why?"

"Because Diana – the roommate – forgot to bring her books with her to class, and didn't know anything about that online blog of yours. She said you told her you're from the Courier."

Busted.


	2. Chapter 2

Okay, not entirely sure what I feel about this chapter, but here you go.

I spent the whole weekend watching Supernatural, when I really should've been working on a bunch of papers.

Thanks for reading!

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**Chapter 2**

**.**

"Why don't you tell us what you're really doing here," Tom suggested slowly, angling himself so as to prevent me from fleeing out the door.

"Um, people don't trust bloggers," I offered lamely, cursing the fact that I'd somehow found myself in this unfortunate situation. The one – or two – good thing was that I'm trapped in here with (or by) two very handsome men.

"Well, can't argue with that," he scoffed.

"Look, we aren't going to do anything to you," Jerry started, but was soon interrupted by his brother.

"You make us sound like rapists."

Jerry sighed in exasperation. "Why are you here?"

"Okay, okay. Fine. This may be a little hard to take in right now, but I don't think your niece killed herself."

"So you think someone did it to our, um, niece," Tom coughed, probably due to the pervasive scent of perfume.

I sniffed. Smells like Victoria's Secret. The store in general, I mean – I don't make it a point to smell every perfume bottle in the store.

"What?"

He looked at me like I was an idiot.

"Oh, yeah. Yes. I mean, maybe. What I mean is, I don't know yet. Why do you think I'm still looking around?"

Jerry nodded. "Fair enough."

"So what are you? Just a curious student or –"

"I told you. I run my own blog."

"Really. Is it some type of news thing? Or just a fun way to pass time sort of thing?"

"I write about anything that I find interesting," I replied, lying straight out of my ass."

Jerry's phone beeped, and as he bent his head to read the message, his brother was looking at me suspiciously.

Wow. That one doesn't miss a thing.

"Well, we have to go take care of some arrangements. So let us know if you find anything."

He jotted something down on a receipt he pulled out of his pocket, handed it to me, and pulled Tom out of the room with him.

"Right. I will. I'm sorry about Jenny," I replied, stuffing the receipt into my back pocket.

I waved lamely as they left, and sat on the hot pink comforter.

Distant uncles, huh.

I pulled my folder of research out of my bag and searched for what I was looking for.

Aha! No one in her family has been named Tom or Jerry. Though there was a Geraldine, but I doubt even the best sex change operation would produce such results. Granted, Jerry's features are slightly more feminine than his brother's – if they even are brothers for that matter.

* * *

Okay, so there's a brunette in almost every single room in this place. And a few were extremely eager to share their promiscuities. Probably boosts their fragile female egos.

I flattened myself on the musty queen-sized bed and made bed-angels in the vomit colored flower comforter.

Hopefully Michael won't try to cause another "suicide" before Thursday. It really is a great thing that everyone flocks home for Thanksgiving.

And it's also great to get to sleep in a big bed for once. I've spent too much time on cots, lumpy twin beds, and backseats. A large musty bed is enough to fully satisfy me.

I sighed in contentment and cursed the fact that I don't get paid at the same time. Being a girl of relatively little talents – outside of my chosen career path, of course – it's hard for me to earn quick money. The hunter-acquaintances of mine – the very few of them that I actually have – are of course, all men, and have quite a knack for pool. I'm not too fond of the game myself, mostly due to the fact that I'm only several inches taller than a pool cue. That, and because I have no aim. Hand me a gun, and I'm Annie Oakley, but give me a pool stick, and I'll forget everything I know about aiming. I think the problem is that a pool stick doesn't have a trigger. Or sharp blades.

Now I see why I don't have a boyfriend. That, and you know, the whole traveling across America thing.

Anyway, back to my point: if I did get paid, I'd probably splurge on a Presidential Suite, or rather, the Honeymoon Suite. Presidents and those of the similar caliber don't really stay in the motels I do.

But, stocked mini-fridges and heart-shaped beds with mirrors on the ceilings are a luxury I just can't afford right now.

Hm, I thought, staring up at the cracked ceiling. Okay, first thing tomorrow night, dig for Michael's bones, and then salt and burn them. That should take care of the problem.

This job seems too easy.

* * *

.

Nothing about this job is easy. And if it seems that way, then something's going to go wrong. And fast.

I read the Courier's headline and groaned.

Another female dead. She – a blonde – slit her wrists in the bathtub. And another was found before she had the chance to successfully suffocate herself with her Hello Kitty pillow.

Seems normal enough, but then again, Michael's victims all died in seemingly non-supernatural ways as well.

I daresay the ghost has gone on a crazy killing spree.

Or Platte River CC is just a hugely depressing place for female college students.

I stuffed the newspaper in my bag, grabbed my jacket, and hurried out the door.

Ten minutes later, I was once again Regina Jackson of the Courier.

"Hi!" Annie, the roommate of the first victim squealed, pulling me down onto the patched up sofa. "I read the paper every day – mostly for the horoscopes, but I pay for a subscription. Anyway, you were asking about Melanie? She's – was – my sister."

"Sisters? You were sisters?" I asked, after I let out an initial "oof" as I sank into the cushion.

She nodded emphatically. "Sorority sisters."

"Of course. Well, um, was she depressed or sad as of late?"

"No, not at all. She was actually really excited for the semi-formal after Thanksgiving."

"Nothing happened to make her want to slit her own wrists?"

Annie shook her head. "I don't see why anyone would want to do that to themselves. Too messy."

"Okay. That should do for now," I said, rising, "Thanks for all your help."

"No problem," she smiled. "Oh! There's a memorial for Melanie tomorrow night. You should come!"

"I'll check my schedule," I forced a smile. "Thanks again."

Oh god, I thought, making my way down the hall to the other victim's room. Sorority chicks are the same everywhere. It's sad.

Room 243.

I knocked on the door and waited.

And waited.

I checked my watch. Only 9:35am. Probably still sleeping, or at class.

Oh well, I thought as I left. I'll check back later.

I made my way to the library, glad to finally see students milling around. The news of the deaths probably hit everyone hard – they all looked so gloomy and somewhat lost. A group of girls were dabbing at their eyes in middle of the walkway, while others were openly sobbing. It was a strange sight to take in, never been one to let myself cry in public myself, but it's nice to know that the deaths were being mourned. I guess.

A surly guy wearing a red and white varsity jacket was standing off to the side, leaning against a tree. His face looked familiar. I wracked my brain trying to remember where I saw him, stepping closer.

His gaze shifted from the group of girls to me, and glared. Whoa, typical college football star with lots of pent up anger boiling inside due to lack of attention in his childhood days. Was made fun of in elementary school, bulked up in middle school, and joined the football team in high school, earned a scholarship to community college - not based on merit, got the girlfriend, girlfriend cheated, more anger – I don't expect any of this to be true, except maybe the scholarship-not-based-on-merit thing. Though, do community colleges even give out scholarships? I have no idea. I just like picking people apart on first glance.

Wait. Girlfriend. That's it.

"What are you looking at?" he snarled, rising to his full height. His cheeks were flushed red, and well, his neck was huge.

"Are you Brandon Collins?" I asked, ignoring his attitude and his not so subtle attempt at domination.

I'm 5'4" for godssake, you don't need to start flexing muscles.

He eyed me. "Who are you?"

"Regina Jackson," I replied. "I'm from the Courier."

"Jackson, huh?"

Gritting my teeth, I responded, "My husband's name."

He smiled coldly. "Some kinky interracial thing going on, huh?"

"Huh. Yes. Very kinky," I said evenly. "You were Melanie's boyfriend, right?"

"What's it to you?"

He folded his arms across his chest and looked at me smugly.

"Just fact checking. Football player?"

He snorted. "The best PRCC has."

Elle, just keep feeding his ego, I told myself, already irritated at the prospect of having to do so.

"I read the article about your touchdown –"

"Against Lincoln State. It was an amazing play. I did a pretty damn good job," Brandon smiled wistfully. "I didn't know they were going to write an article on it."

"Well, do you want to be in the newspaper again?" I asked, hoping he wasn't smart enough to see through me.

He looked at me, this time without any poorly hidden malice.

"You can be, if you help me with the article," I added, rubbing my hands together in attempt to staunch the cold. November is wintertime, and yet I always forget that. I think the whole driving around the country – from areas that are actually cold in the winter to places that remain relatively balmy – messes with my brain. It would be lovely if I could work case by case, state by state, but no, supernatural occurrences and entities do not organize themselves in an orderly fashion at the wishes of their hunter.

If this Brandon Collins was a man, he'd lend his jacket to the girl standing in nearly 40 degree weather wearing only a long sleeved shirt and jeans.

But he's not offering.

And so, I must conclude that he's not a man.

But under my standards, men are so hard to come by. They all died out with the knights.

He was still eyeing me skeptically.

After a few seconds, he nodded and smiled slyly. "Okay, but I don't usually go for short girls."

What.

"You're really odd, you know that?" I replied, the words not matching my cheery fake-smile.

If he was as dumb as I first thought, he'd take my last comment as a compliment.

He didn't comment on it. Instead, he unfolded his arms and propped himself against the tree again. "So what do you want to know?"

"You two were dating?" I asked, pulling out my pocket notebook to keep up pretenses.

"Yeah. Until I found her with her geek of a lab partner," he said bitterly. "It wasn't even biology."

"Oh. I see. That must have been tough for you," I responded, choosing to ignore the biology bit – because if I lingered on that, I'd start laughing.

The glare was back, but it wasn't directed towards me.

"We'd been together since the beginning of high school. We were going to get married."

Oh dear.

"So you broke up with her."

"Wouldn't you have? If someone cheated on you like that?"

"Well, I suppose. How did Melanie take it?"

"She apologized at first. But then I told her I never wanted to see her again, so she got angry, and then after a while she started crying."

"Did she seem depressed?"

"She didn't seem like she was going to kill herself, if that's what you're getting at," Brandon said bluntly.

Guess he's smarter than I thought.

"She looked terrible for a few days, but then she got over it, and started going to parties again."

"How long ago was this?"

He shrugged, stuffing his hands into his jean pockets. "A few months ago probably."

"Who was the lab partner?"

"No one special. They hung out a few times afterwards, Annie told me, but after that, Melanie just went a little boy-crazy," he said, frowning slightly.

"Do you know anyone who'd want her dead?"

He looked taken aback at my rather blunt question, and was probably shocked into silence for a few seconds. But then he shook his head. "No. No one. I mean, I was probably the one who disliked her the most, but I didn't want her to _die_. That's just insane."

"Okay. Just covering all the bases," I replied, clicking my pen. "By any chance, do you know a Brittany Leonard?"

"The one who tried to suffocate herself? No. I've seen her round before, but she has a strange fascination with that cat. Kitten. The cartoon thing with the huge head."

"Hello Kitty?"

"You would know," he muttered under his breath.

The bell tower chimed, and Brandon shuffled his feet.

"Well, it's been fun, but I have to get to class," he said, glancing at his cell phone.

"All right, well, thanks for answering my questions. And don't worry, I'll be sure to name you."

Shrugging, he replied, "No problem."

Then he winked and walked away.

People are so strange these days, I thought, putting the notebook back into my bag. Either that, or he's more shaken up about the whole incident than I thought.

* * *

Later around midnight, I was sweating buckets into the partially dug grave of Michael Stevenson – Beloved Son.

Brittany never returned to her room, and her roommates said she wouldn't be back. And being the great roommates they were, they had no idea where she went. Brittany's parents were away as well, so needless to say, I'd hit a dead end.

I suppose I'm getting a little careless. If Kevin had been here, he'd probably insist that we find out who all her friends are, and ask them about Brittany. Hell, after a few hours of questioning dozens of people, we'd probably know everything about the girl, from her favorite color to what she ate the morning of her failed suffocation.

I dug the shovel into the packed soil and stomped on it with my right leg. Hard. Lift with your knees, not your back, I thought mindlessly.

Voices.

Fuck. Who in their right minds would be in the cemetery this late?

"So you think this'll work?" a male voice asked into the dark night as I hurried to scramble behind a large tombstone.

"It'd better," another responded.

"What the hell."

Someone threw something to the ground in a loud thump. It landed perilously close to the tombstone I was crouched behind.

"What's this?" he mused out loud, prodding at something I hoped was _not_ my own bag.

"Looks like someone was in a hurry."

Feeling a strange sensation on my arm, I looked down only to gasp involuntarily. I abhor spiders, and the one currently crawling towards my elbow was one of the biggest spindliest daddy-long-legs I've ever had the misfortune to come in contact with.

It wasn't until it was too late that I'd realized I'd pretty much outed myself.

"Well, well, what do we have here?"

I shot up, doing the little spastic jig I usually do when there are bugs on me.

After I was done, I looked up only to see one of the two brothers I'd met only a day or two ago.

"You," he stated flatly, grabbing my elbow.

"Get off me," I ordered, attempting to pry his fingers off my arm.

It was to no avail.

"What, do you have steel claws for fingers or something?" I asked angrily.

"Dean! Look who I found," he said as he pretty much dragged me near the pit I dug.

It was Mr. Long-Eyelashes, aka. Tom. Why the hell did Jerry call him Dean? Unless…

"Who the hell are you?" I bit out, shaking loose Jerry's grip.

"We could ask you the same thing…Elle Lee." Tom or Dean said slowly, waving my wallet in the air.

Well fuck.

"You got me there. So what. I gave a fake name. Who's Dean, by the way?" I shot him a sugary sweet fake smile.

"Okay, fine. We're all guilty of that. But it doesn't answer my question," he said in an irritatingly authoritative tone.

"I was just walking –"

"Right. And in middle of your stroll, you just felt like digging a hole in the ground," he scoffed.

"You're the one holding the shovel," I responded nonchalantly, wondering why in the world Jerry would have a shovel in the first place.

Unless…

"You guys are hunters, aren't you," I blurted, eyeing the scene before me.

"Wait. Don't tell me –"

"What? Women can't be hunters?"

"I didn't say that," Dean said quickly, tossing me my bag. "But, aren't you a little young?"

It was my turn to scoff. "How old do you think I am?"

"Eighteen, tops."

"You had my ID card. Too bad you only went for the name. Look, as fun as this has been, I need to return to what I was doing before I was interrupted," I said, gesturing toward the half-dug grave.

"Excuse us," Jerry said, pulling Dean to the side.

That boy sure likes manhandling people, huh.

Ignoring them, I picked up my shovel and started to dig. Again.

They weren't doing a great job of keeping things on the down low, if that's what they were aiming for.

"So what, do we just leave?" Jerry hissed.

"There's already someone on the job. You know we don't work well with other –"

"Do you think she can –"

"Hey, just because I'm a girl and look like I'm eighteen doesn't mean I can't do my job," I called, hitting the wooden coffin with more force than necessary.

"I never said that."

"You didn't have to. Now are you going to help me or are you just going to keep standing there like idiots?"

The two of them shared a glance, but came to help pry the coffin open.

"Come on boys, put your backs into it," I said between breaths.

Dean grunted and Jerry glared.

"C'mon Sam, you heard the girl," Dean smirked, just before we popped the lid open.

"Sam?" I repeated, pausing. "Okay, well, I guess that's better than Tom and Jerry. Not very creative, I must say."

"And Bella is? Someone read too many of those trashy vampire novels, huh?"

"It was _Belle_," I corrected, coughing as I breathed in some dirt.

"Hey," Sam interrupted. "Guys."

"What?" Dean and I growled in unison.

"There's nothing down there."

"Why the hell would someone bury an empty casket? Looking for a way to waste money?" I ranted out loud, kicking dirt into the box.

"My thoughts exactly," Dean mused.

"So what now?" I asked irritably.

I've been whining and complaining much more than usual, but girls have it worse than guys. PMS. Cramps. Cravings – for chocolate, silk sheets, more chocolate, and honestly, meat. It makes me sound almost animalistic, but a girl needs her protein to be able to keep up with ghosts and the like.

"We need to find his parents," Sam stated professorially. "Maybe they know what happened to his body."

"They should," Dean replied, raising his eyebrows. "So who's going to do it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, we're not exactly working together here."

"No, we aren't," I agreed. "I got here first."

"Someone's being a little immature."

"All right, fine. You two go talk to the parents, and I'll try and make sure no one else dies before you figure it all out. Or, you guys could head off to your next hunt."

"We'll head off," Dean offered, just as Sam chose the other option.

"Which is it?"

"We'll leave the job up to you, unless you need help."

I didn't care for his tone. But what can you do.

"Are you out here alone?" Sam asked later as we were walking to our respective cars.

"Yeah, I am. I take it you and your brother – are you two even brothers?" I asked, interrupting my own question.

"We weren't lying about that," he responded, adjusting the bag on his shoulder. "Have you been hunting long?"

"I've only been at it solo for a while."

"You sure you don't want us to stay."

"I'm sure."

"You have my number, right? Just call if you need anything. We should be in the area for a while," Sam said as we parted ways.

"I will."

Not.

* * *

"Yes, Kevin, I'm eating my vegetables," I sighed, glancing at the crumpled double cheeseburger wrapper on the bed.

"I can't say I believe you, but I can't do much about it from here, I guess," he replied. "Have you gotten the package Charlotte sent you yet?"

Uh.

"Where'd she send it? I mean, did she get the address right?"

"It was the P.O. box in Cleveland, right? You didn't give us anything else."

"Yeah. I guess I haven't checked it in a while," I improvised rather poorly.

"Look, I don't want to keep bringing this up, 'cause I know it gets irritating, but I'm going to ask you again. Are you still hunting?"

"No, Kevin, I'm not," I replied, rolling my eyes at my reflection in the grimy mirror.

"I hope you're not lying. You know it's not a job to do by yourself."

"I know, I know."

"Charlotte and I were thinking of flying in to see you for Thanksgiving," he started.

"No! I mean, I'll come to you. I actually don't even know if I'll be able to get Thanksgiving off. If not, then I'll definitely come for Christmas."

"Why would you have to work on Thanksgiving?"

"Looking for a promotion," I replied, pulling out my duffle bag.

I held the cell phone between my shoulder and ear, and began to polish my guns. These babies have been neglected for almost a week – I could almost see the rust. Not really, but I tend to get a bit irrational.

"Okay, well, Charlie and I are going out soon, so we'll talk about Thanksgiving later."

"All right. Talk to you later," I said, flipping my phone shut.

I threw the phone on the bed, and placed the half-polished gun back into the bag. Reaching into my backpack, I pulled out my laptop.

Sometimes I really wish there was a directory of hunters. It's really too bad that we all have trust issues. It would be lovely to be able to Google "supernatural hunters" or even "ghost hunters" for that matter, and be able to pull up a Yellowpages type thing. But this idea of mine, like some of my ideas, is faulty. What if demons suddenly became internet-literate? They could just go down the list and kill us off.

Michael Stevenson. Parents: Don and Janice Stevenson. Address: 463 Rosewood Lane, Lincoln.

I love Al Gore for inventing the internet. Or, at least, I love him for coming out and saying that he invented it. I mean, who does that? It's great.

Three fourteen am, the flip down clock read.

I wrote the address on my planner, shut my laptop, and tuned in to late-night-early-morning infomercials.

First thing tomorrow, barring any unfortunate circumstances, a visit to Don and Janice.


End file.
